Those Who Sin
by The Real Lightning Alchemist
Summary: A headache. One of immensity. Worthy of Gaston.


_**A/N:**_ _This was written for a Beauty and the Beast RP audition on Tumblr._ _Since my arsenal here is terribly vacant, I thought I would share it. It should go without saying that the abstinence of flaming and hating would be greatly appreciated._

Those Who Sin

He roused. His eyes rolled. His gullet stirred, dry and anxious, with the texture of gauze against the lining. His larynx slightly bobbing as he came to.

A headache.

One of immensity. Worthy of Gaston.

His tangled, long lashes flickered, his eyes shifting in and out of consciousness, white to blue. He swayed uncomfortably, and his great momentum cast him down heavily into the couch cushion.

Raucously sick, he felt, as though passing – yes, passing like an abrupt and gaseous break, or a steady pissing flow…he preferred the latter comparison…passing off into a purgatory of drunken stupor, in and out, out and back again. Thought is all but brief. Extensive was not in him, except to offer a complaint. Which he did in the form of a low, anxious groan. _Reflection_ was for the intellectual. Which he was not. So ebbing between the present of his…despicable living room, and seeing Jesus of Nazareth, he reemerged into the stream of reality, of his mortal existence, reasonably enough. Mortal. Indeed.

His senses were in overload, accompanied by a thunderous pounding bouncing from temple to temple. His vision rendered a little tremulous, blurred, and uncertain. His eyes burned.

For the past several years, more than he cared to count – but enough to suggest his manhood – he had more than stomached his consumptions and had woken very sane and very much in check come morning. Seldom as it were did he ever have what was aptly called a hangover – he hung haphazardly over his couch. Spent. _Dumped_, quite literally, in an awkward posture. He had always been generous in his intake, and considered himself along the line of caution (_under unconscious misguidance_). He had not merely weathered the effects (_Gaston did not simply weather anything_). – But by God's ample grace, he was as immune to what otherwise showed immediately on his companions as he was to reason itself.

_This is a __first_!

That he was mindful enough to make note himself, unpleasant and offensive, that he had become drunk in the most uncensored manner.

_Disgrace_, he thought. His baritone swelled silently in his ears.

It was then as the result of worse lack of caution than stanch pride would never admit, that he quickly deteriorate into bitter agitation. With everything. The degree of his keep – kept it was not – no, the extent , for it must be more specific in the perception of true, unutterable damage _have I done/shit!_… - wrought by opposition.

_Ohhhhhh_ _shit__..._

It went without saying that he was gloriously less God-unsightly to be seen than his house.

Crashing into the couch. The cushions deflated immediately upon impact. He sunk uncomfortably into the wooden frame beneath. His nose pressed the upholstery. There was no comfort. The couch was old and handicapped through use and abuse. The upholstery itself was marred with stains of beer and sweat; warm and damp. It bore so many scents of various liquors and derrieres and leather breeches, and his own gas-passing, amassed – YES, a_mass_ed! – over the past two years, which seemed to skitter past like all the skirts he chased and snatched and ruffled and undid, like a few reckless months. A tactless bachelor. His own extracts resulting from those escapades, were thankfully the least apparent in sight or smell…- But no doubt they were there. Instead it captured the many delightful scents of female parts, spread legs and bare moist bottoms that he had leveled his hips between with prowling practice.

On this remembrance, Gaston startled himself, jerking upright. A curdling squeak came from the furniture. Groaning with a slurring tongue, he fumbled beneath his tunic to find the straps of his breeches untouched, nothing undone, violated, invaded, out of place. Perfectly intact. His boots still lay beside the scrap of furniture, amongst strewn scraps of broken class and socks.

And a pair of panties.

He grinned. A wicked pinch to the corner of his mouth, with a creasing dimple, and a corrupt curl and arch of the eyebrow. Triumphant of his existence, and never ever displeased with himself. All very well. _Nothing that can't be picked up!_

He had some delicacy. Not so impersonal to always invite them to his private residence, but neither so refined as to exhibit better moderation, nor so inhibited not to make more frequent use of the tavern inn on the second floor, with a room that had become his usual resort for debauchery – nor so unrehearsed in making love to the untried as to not apply objects that muted vocal pleasure. A secret experienced by few, etched carefully into his mind, bore unto their bodies and branded with a singe into their remembrance. He took care. Never did he lay them twice. There was some caution in him yet in the pride of self-image. – Insatiable was the animal himself, very hungry his ministrations, deliciously done.

...

He _was_, after all, Gaston.


End file.
